


Red, Red, Red

by freetheelves2



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adultery, Alcohol, Dubious Consent, F/M, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-08
Updated: 2007-01-08
Packaged: 2018-08-27 15:39:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8407297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freetheelves2/pseuds/freetheelves2
Summary: When Hermione feels inadequate she tries to compensate.





	

The first night she spent at Grimmauld Place to hide out her dreams were _white_. At first sight it looked as if there was no color, but if one looked more closely, one would notice that it wasn’t a lack of color at all, but an abundance of all color in its most pure, vibrant forms. It contained an inexplicable beauty, and she didn’t wake once.

During the second week things became more _yellow_ – sullied from the small depression she’d lapsed into. Just like she’d reassured Harry and Ron, it was nothing major; she was just missing her family and the (almost) normal life they used to be able to have. It was just the effects of the war, she reasoned and brushed it off as nothing.

Little did they know that it wasn’t just the war.

Within a month, they’d turned _orange_ , and Harry sat her down because she looked _different_.

“What’s wrong, Hermione?”

“Nothing’s wrong, you’re imagining things.”

“No, I’m not. Something’s up.”

Hermione just stared at him blankly.

 _Red_ didn’t come until she saw _it_.

No one knew about the things she saw at night, when she couldn’t sleep. When she’d get up and look through cracks in doors because she was too curious and too tired and too awake to care anymore.

But when she saw _them_ she ran from her spot and forced herself to sleep.

Much to her dismay, her dreams were red and filled with nothing but the color. A restless sleep, she awoke screaming only when Harry rattled her from her self-induced torture.

_Panting, sweating, gripping, yearning, moaning, groping, needing, wanting, desperately…_

_She hadn’t meant to see that. She hadn’t been supposed to see that. It wasn’t meant for her to see. That was forbidden._

She hardly noticed the transitions to blue, violet, green, brown, and all the various other shades she lost track of. It wasn’t until their going-away party that she finally knew what it had all been leading up to.

The war had brought with it many changes, and after the necessary research had been conducted, Harry had finally announced about a week ago, that they’d be ready to destroy him now, and leave the Black household (it would always be that to her; it was that something in the air).

Hermione wasn’t sure whether to be rejoicing or disappointed.

So maybe she’d had a little bit too much to drink. She always had been a bit of a lightweight, and she really hadn’t ever had that much alcohol in her life ever before, and she’d hardly eaten at dinner, either, so after three glasses of the Zinfandel that Remus had remarked tasted like sugar-water, she could have been a bit tipsy.

Not that she minded, of course. Things were all good. Up to the point where fell up the stairs and just lay there, giggling.

“Oh, bit much to drink, Hermione? All well and good, with you all leaving tomorrow; I’ll just get you upstairs and to bed…” she heard Mr. Weasley mumbling overhead as she tried not too look, but began shaking her head vigorously all of a sudden.

“No. No, no, no, no. Bad idea,” she heard herself slur out, but strong hands hauled her to her feet anyway and lifted her up off her feet.

“Oh, now, be sensible,” he said, carrying her up the stairs and to her room when she suddenly struggled and managed to slip out of his grip.

Falling over as she hit the ground, she looked up at the man with big, wide eyes, mouthing something like the word ‘shower’ to him

He looked at her skeptically for a moment, then reluctantly nodded his head. “All right. I’ll check to see if you’re all right in about ten minutes, okay? Just to be on the safe side.”

The minute she got the door locked and closed behind her, she slid down the bathroom door, her knees drawn up to her chin, her breaths coming in quick, short gasps.

The bathroom was blurry and her vision was very swimmy all around, but she didn’t care. Clambering to upright herself, all the while relying heavily on the sink for support, she managed to look at herself in the mirror.

She looked sick. Discolored and unclear, she wasn’t sure if it was the effect of the alcohol, because then again, it could just have been her.

Pulling off her jumper with shaking hands, she looked at herself in the mirror.

She really wasn’t very pretty.

Her hair wasn’t radiant and manageable like Ginny’s.

Her body wasn’t as slim like Lavender’s.

Her muscles weren’t as toned as Cho’s.

Her skin wasn’t as flawless as Parvati’s.

Her eyes weren’t as sparkling as Luna’s.

She was a veritable mess in front of the mirror, looking like this. Dark circles rimming her lackluster eyes she looked tired, worn, and weary. Pulling off the rest of her clothing, she poked at her somewhat even, almost _pudgy_ figure, although she hardly ate anymore. Maybe a meal a day, if she was lucky. Grimacing at herself, she let her fingers with their chewed fingernails trace the scars on her chest. Destroying Horcruxes was hard work. Things were lost, forgotten, sullied.

She was sullied. Lost. Perhaps even forgotten? But then again, who would have forgotten her? Harry hadn’t, but that was because he cared too much.

And maybe because she felt so lost and forgotten and sullied… because of all that she had been so enraptured by what she saw that one night ( _Red, red, red_ ). It was exactly what she wanted; needed so desperately. Even if it was only mindless passion, someone would care and love and treasure the body they would’ve been given, even if only for a short amount of time.

Sighing, she shook her head slowly and stepped into the shower, pulling the curtain closed and turning on the scalding hot water, letting it beat on her back in an almost-rhythm.

She was so deep in thought, her eyes shut blissfully as she traversed other pastures in her mind, that she didn’t even hear the door open.

“Hermione?”

Her eyes shot open, and she knew what she was supposed to do, but she couldn’t make herself speak.

“Hermione?” the voice persisted again, but she was silent.

Maybe she wanted this to happen. Wanted to see. Wanted to, however, feel helpless in the situation so that it wasn’t her fault at all. Wanted to be taken advantage of and not have a choice.

She didn’t say anything, and the curtain was pulled aside.

She had to have looked a fright; drunk or high or just muted and subdued by the hot water, her eyelids half closed.

Nevertheless, her senses were still intact and almost—heightened, so that she could smell his fear and see him visibly swallow with nervousness and restraint from the naked sight of her.

“This is wrong,” he mumbled, staring at the floor.

“What is?” she slurred, cocking her head slightly, stepping backwards in the shower.

“You should get out of there,” he added, not looking away from her shoes.

Advancing slightly, she slipped and fell forward, landing in his arms, staring up at him. “I did, Mr. Weasley.”

His clothes were getting wet and he was staring at her now; that much had been inevitable, clearly, given the situation. All she’d needed was time. Maybe she wasn’t so hopeless after all.

“I do love my wife,” he suddenly chocked out, and she nodded as she began to undo his shirt buttons. “I know you do. I saw you. It’s what made me think of this – of you – in the first place.”

“Oh god,” he stammered, his hand reaching forward to clasp onto the shower door for support as she undid his pants and pulled him into the shower, practically forcing him to rid himself of the rest of his clothing on the way.

In the shower and under the water she could get a better look at him. For some reason things seemed clearer there; she decided that she really did like it here, one of the few places.

He wasn’t a particularly attractive man, from his slowly-balding head of red hair, and his pointy nose, to his thin limbs, and that yet, not-quite-but-nevertheless slightly chubby quality that one wouldn’t expect in a man of his stature. There wasn’t much hair; just a small thin trail that led down to something… normal.

Why was everything in her life so average? So normal? And, above all else, why did she consider that inadequate?

“Your… scars…” he whispered, and she hadn’t felt a sense of anything wash over her until now. Nausea overcoming her, she didn’t want him to… couldn’t have him saying anything else. It was break her and make her feel… regret? Remorse? Disgust?

Launching herself forward, her body collided with his as the water only added to the friction between the two bodies, and she kissed him.

From then on, things became a blur. She was forced against the wall – she didn’t personally do much from then on, just how she had wanted, and she let him take her over. She needed someone else to reign over her body because she had lost control; wanted, needed to lose control for once.

The wet tiles were cold against her heat-flushed back as she was forced against them, her legs picked up from the inside of her knees so they wrapped around his torso, and he entered her in one swift motion, the water providing ample lubrication for it not to hurt.

He didn’t touch her, his hands busy with keeping her steady, his body focusing on thrusting instead, but she didn’t care. In fact, she was pretty sure she preferred it this way. If he were to touch her and make this something beautiful and sensuous and caring, she’d feel filthy and sullied and dirty and so very _wrong_ , because that didn’t fit her emotions or her mental state or this scenario whatsoever.

Even when he emptied himself into her and she didn’t come, she liked that better this way, too, because there wouldn’t be any attachment. It was just meaningless, cheap body contact.

He left her soon after, completely wordlessly, of course, leaving her sitting alone in the bottom of the shower, the water still streaming down, colder down there for some reason.

She didn’t care.

And even when she got up in the morning, knowing she’d be going with Harry and Ron to fight Voldemort in the Final Battle that day, she didn’t care.

The only thing she cared about was the fact that her dreams that night had been _black_ , dark and sullied and rotten.

Innocence sullied, lost, forgotten. Though perhaps not the latter. She was trying to forget about that.


End file.
